


Bring Back My Soldier Boy To Me

by bluebeholder



Series: Shell Shock [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Everybody Lives, Everybody is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Overprotective Theseus Scamander, Poor Life Choices, Questionable ethics, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: It's almost time for Theseus to return to England and Percival is having a crisis of feelings. And then a badly-damaged and miraculously-alive Credence shows up on his doorstep. On top of having to help Credence, figure out how to keep him safe from MACUSA, and work out the ethical issues surrounding their relationship, Percival is going to have to deal with the increasingly complicated situation with Theseus.The course of true love never did run smooth.





	Bring Back My Soldier Boy To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/gifts), [Truetomorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truetomorrow/gifts), [Crimson_Voltaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/gifts).



> You three are ENABLERS, I tell you, ENABLERS. I was GOING to make the first story a one-shot, but noooooo, you just HAD to get Credence in here. So! This is the beginning of the OT3. This fic is LONGER than the instigating one. But, sorry, no sex here…Percival’s kind of an unethical idiot in this one, but he’s not completely without morals. Furthermore, this is…not exactly a three-way relationship yet. Percival’s kind of at the point of the triangle with Credence and Theseus pointed at him, but not at each other. We’ll get there eventually.
> 
> If you’re feeling melancholy—listen to Ed Sheeran’s “Eraser”, which is the official theme for this ’verse, for ALL THREE OF THE BOYS. 
> 
> Warning: straightforward discussion of suicide near the end of the chapter. If you’d like to skip this, stop reading when Theseus tells Percival he shouldn’t have helped Credence and continue on after the break.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave,” Theseus says, staring out the window. 

“You’ve been here two weeks,” Percival says. He watches Theseus from across the table. The other man is still slightly sleep-tousled, attempting to banish his drowsiness with coffee. He’s still soft with sleep, blinking slowly in the morning light spilling into the kitchen. Percival wants very badly to lean across the table and kiss him. He doesn’t. “The Ministry’s going to get impatient.”

Theseus sighs. “I know.” He takes a long drink of coffee. “I don’t like leaving you alone again.”

“I’ll do better this time,” Percival says. 

“If you don’t, I’ll resign and come back here just to take care of you,” Theseus threatens.

Percival pauses in the act of taking a bite of toast. “You’d go crazy in New York that long.”

Rueful, Theseus sighs. “I suppose I would.”

“I will miss you, though,” Percival admits. He hasn’t done half the things he wants to do with Theseus—most of them sickeningly romantic—because they’ve both been quite careful not to broach the topic of anything more than purely platonic affection. To the public eye, they’ve never been more than intensely close friends, so anyone watching this little drama play out would see nothing amiss. In Percival’s eyes, the gap between himself and Theseus remains as wide as the Atlantic Ocean, and Percival doesn’t have a fucking boat.

“That’s comforting to hear,” Theseus says. He finishes off his coffee. “So. If my dear soon-to-be-sister-in-law is correct, Picquery kicked you out yesterday for almost hexing a member of Congress…?”

Wand Permits is too good for Tina. “You could simply avoid discussing that,” Percival says. 

Theseus’ eyes sparkle. “Or I could talk about it at length. Does this mean you’ve got the whole weekend off now?”

“Friday to Tuesday,” Percival says woefully. “Until I ‘cool down’ and decide to unbend enough to extend a formal apology to Senator Darby.”

“A _formal apology_ —Percival! Did you _actually_ hex him?”

“It was only a Tickling Charm! Absolutely legal, no intent whatsoever for physical injury, and I was aiming at a loose pigeon anyway. It’s not my fault that he stepped into the way, or that they couldn’t find the pigeon later.” 

Theseus slams his face into his palm. “That sounds like one of _my_ justifications. I really must go back to England, I’m a terrible influence on you.”

“He had it coming,” Percival says darkly, “and he’s lucky I didn’t do worse.”

At that, Theseus looks up. “What do you mean, he had it coming?”

What to tell him? There are so many things that Percival hasn’t really discussed, except in the most cursory way. Theseus knows about the Obscurial, of course, knows that Grindelwald had tried to use him for a weapon, but he doesn’t know why Percival has such an intimate connection to everything surrounding the boy. Why Percival is fighting half of Congress to pass legislation that will require Aurors to intervene in cases of abuse against children, even if they’re No-Maj children. 

“Darby’s the kind of man who thinks that No-Majs are inferior to the point where he’s barely indistinguishable from Grindelwald,” Percival says, choosing the safest route. “He only just stops short of saying that we should actually keep them all as slaves.”

“…tell me where he lives and I’ll go hex him for you,” Theseus says. 

“Do _not_ cause an international incident.”

“I’ve dealt with too many Pure-Bloods back in England to think that your Darby is worth anything more than a Shrinking Hex to the—”

Theseus is cut off by someone banging on the back door. It’s loud and fast and desperate and startles Percival so badly that he’s on his feet in a split second, wand at the ready. He didn’t knock over his chair, by some stroke of luck—he can’t afford to make any sound at all. Theseus rises, too, hackles raised. He doesn’t speak, just flicks his eyes at the doorway: he wants Percival to take the lead.

As Percival steps into the hallway, quiet as a cat, the knocking stops. Percival stands behind the door and wishes fleetingly that his Foe-Glass wasn’t located in the damn _study_. Though it might not be of any use in this case. What kind of enemy knocks at the door?

Behind Percival, ten feet back, Theseus is ready to attack. It’s paranoia, perhaps, but necessary paranoia all the same. If there is someone hostile at his door—well, Percival’s glad to have Theseus behind him. His tense thoughts race, and it occurs to him that if the visitor is who he’s afraid it is then at least he’s sure that Theseus will see Percival dead before he lets Grindelwald have him.

Cautiously, Percival opens the door. For half a second, he’s confused—there’s no one there—and then Theseus says vehemently, “What the _fuck_.”

Then Percival looks down and sees a body on the doorstep, sharp angles and torn clothing and a mop of dark hair and oh fuck, fuck, no, he was _dead_. He’s on his knees before he can think, wand cast heedlessly aside, desperately checking for a pulse. Theseus is demanding to know what is going on and Percival can only choke out, “It’s _Credence_ , oh, Credence, _Credence_ , please, _wake up_ —”

He picks the boy up to carry him into the house, one arm under his knees and one around his back. The boy’s head lolls until Theseus, ever practical, helps Percival steady his hold and make sure that Credence won’t fall. Even though he’s as tall as Percival and unconscious dead weight, Credence weighs far, far too little, as if there’s nothing inside his bones. His pulse is as faint as the beating of a butterfly’s wings, his chest barely rising and falling when he breathes. However he got here, however he survived, he must have burnt up any energy he had left. 

Percival doesn’t want to let go of him, but he gets Credence upstairs and into a bed— _your bed_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully with incredibly bad timing, _you just put him in YOUR bed_ —before checking him for injuries. And he is injured: Theseus, who’s followed them upstairs in a state of bemusement, lets out a horrified sound when Percival clinically strips the boy out of his tattered clothes. The skin around every one of Credence’s joints is covered in thick scabs and scars, some of which have cracked open and begun to bleed again. There’s a blistered curse scar on his back—how it still looks fresh when it’s been almost _two months_ since Credence’s apparent death is a question for another time—which is swollen and red and dripping sickly-colored pus where it burst when Credence hit the ground. 

“Theseus,” Percival says, looking up at him in total desperation, “help me—we need to heal him—”

At once, Theseus is on his knees next to the bed, not asking a single question. He presses Percival’s wand into his hand. “You tackle that blister, I’ll start patching up…um…everything else?”

Percival tries to be gentle, touching his wand to the injury, whispering healing incantations in a panicked counterpoint to Theseus’ steady murmur. This is beyond Percival’s power to heal wandless. He still wants to touch Credence as much as he can, assure himself that he’s alive, so he settles for resting a hand on the back of the boy’s neck, hoping like hell that if Credence can feel it that the gesture brings him some small comfort. 

When he’s cleared up the blister as best he can, Percival turns to the rest of the injuries. There are bloody gashes over the hinges of Credence’s jaw and he heals those wandless. The faint flicker of breath on his hands is reassuring because Credence is still here, still alive, still with him. Theseus has already handled Credence’s legs and the vicious slices along his sides and belly and is working on the boy’s chest, so Percival takes care of the arms and hands. 

They can’t remove the scars, because neither of them are real healers, but they can stop the bleeding and get Credence out of immediate danger. Percival sits back, suddenly horribly exhausted, still holding onto Credence’s limp hand.

“Scourgify,” Theseus says, touching his wand to the sheets. With remarkable gentleness, he pulls the blankets over Credence, who doesn’t even move at the sudden touch. The boy looks as fragile as glass right now, and it _terrifies_ Percival. 

“Thank you,” he says, looking up at Theseus.

Theseus is still looking at Credence. “Percival,” he says in measured tones, “I think you owe me a very long explanation.”

***

Percival shouldn’t have remotely cared about the boy from Second Salem. He shouldn’t. But Tina Goldstein, one of his favorite Aurors even if he wasn’t supposed to have favorites, begged him to go and look in on the kid. “Please, sir,” she’d said. “I know I—I can’t, but someone has to take care of him—”

“I’ll make no official promises, Tina,” Percival said. When her eyes started to well up with angry tears and she’d bitten her lip as if trying to keep down shouts, Percival had taken her hand. “Off the record, I’ll check on him.”

It really wasn’t professional to let a subordinate cry on his shoulder for fifteen minutes after he demoted her to Wand Permits, but Percival didn’t care. Tina was a good Auror, and could be one of the best, assuming that she didn’t cause any more major trouble. He’d sent her on her way with the vague thought that he might do it today, and by the time that he’d left MACUSA the decision was made. 

Now here he was, standing under an awning across the street from the Second Salem boy on this frigid early-November evening. No one noticed him; he wasn’t the Director of Magical Security and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for no reason. And despite himself, Percival felt a welling of pity for the boy across the street. 

He was tall and thin, standing with his shoulders hunched against the chill wind. A flat-brimmed, flat-topped, round black hat did him no favors and offended all of Percival’s dress sense. His clothes were old-fashioned and ill-fitting to the point that, in any other circumstance, they could have been mistaken for a clown’s garb, and in this circumstance were almost tragic. The boy never once looked up from the sidewalk, holding out the stack of pamphlets in what looked like silent despair and complete futility. 

“No wonder Tina worried about you,” Percival muttered, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets with a shiver. The wind was really hellish today. He couldn’t imagine how numb that boy’s hands must be, bare in the cold. He was half considering hauling the boy home to plant him in front of a warm fire, wrap him in a soft blanket, and feed him something healthy and hot. Admittedly, Percival was privately a man who enjoyed taking care of other people, but in his professional life that was strictly limited to adopting the whole of America as charges to be protected with wand and word. It was very rare that Percival directed such attention at a specific person. 

Well. There was nothing he could do unless he wanted to demote _himself_ down to Wand Permits, so he turned on his heel and departed. The boy was alive, at any rate, and Tina would be glad to hear it.

Somehow, Percival was completely unsurprised and very unimpressed with himself when he came back to the same street corner the next day. The wind was calmer and somehow the boy had found a scarf, but he still looked impossibly miserable. And he was _still_ without gloves. 

Percival made up his mind that he could do some small kindness here without breaking the law. It would be no more than a gift—though it would have to be carefully set up, so that the young man would think that Percival was no more than an anonymous face in the crowd. A plan took immediate shape in Percival’s head: take a pamphlet from the boy today, ask him to speak at length tomorrow, and the day after that offer the philanthropy that only a rich man, a wizard, or anyone with a conscience could offer: a pair of damn _gloves_. 

Careful of the cars, Percival crossed the street and joined the throng hurrying in both directions down the sidewalk. He’d come to spot just outside where he judged the boy’s peripheral vision to be and turned to follow the flow of the crowd toward him. 

“—walk among us,” the boy recited, just audible in the chaos of a New York workday. “Salvation can be yours—”

“Mind if I take one?” Percival asked, stopping just in front of the boy. 

He looked up, dull eyes meeting Percival’s. “Meetings on Sunday afternoons,” he said, handing a flimsy piece of paper to Percival. And then his attention was back on the sidewalk. 

Something about the interaction left Percival terribly unsettled. The boy’s hands—were there scars on his palms? And if so, who’d put them there? And why? Such harm was senseless, and seeing it directed against someone who couldn’t be more than twenty years old was infuriating. 

The next day, when Percival asked to speak to the boy, he couldn’t get much out of him. Only the aphorisms of the Second Salem Church, a rhetoric of hate that sounded much less horrific when whispered through lips blue with cold. He learned that day that the boy’s name was Credence, and he was nineteen years old. Not quite a man, but certainly not a boy. And this time Percival got a good look at his bony hands, which had fresh cuts on them. That desire to simply pull Credence away and keep him safe from whatever was happening in his life wasn’t going away. If anything, it was getting stronger.

Quite deliberately _not_ thinking about why he was doing this, Percival made sure to select gloves that were softly lined, and wouldn’t chafe against any new cuts. 

“I don’t understand, sir,” Credence said, looking up at Percival. Though the boy might be taller, if he stood up straight, they were nearly the same height when he slouched. He had the gloves in his hands and was staring at Percival in absolute confusion.

“It’s _winter_ ,” Percival said. “You need to stay warm.”

“I don’t understand why you care,” Credence said bleakly. 

Percival sort of wanted to hex half of New York. Was this kid serious? “Someone has to.”

Credence lifted his head then and looked Percival in the eye. The dullness in his eyes disappeared and something dark and sharp and _angry_ was there instead. “Why would a witch care about me?”

The planet tilted. 

“A witch?” Percival shook his head, trying to regain an equilibrium. “I think your Ma’s gotten to your head a little much.”

“I saw you three days ago,” Credence said. “Across the street. Watching me.”

Now that got Percival’s attention. “How did you see me?” he snapped.

Credence flinched and curled in on himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t—”

“Explain it to me,” Percival said. He softened his voice a bit, so as not to terrify the boy, but he needed an answer and he needed it now. “I should have been invisible to a No-Maj. I should have been invisible to you. How did you see me?”

“I don’t know,” Credence said, even more quietly, staring at the pavement.

Either Percival was dealing with a mislaid Squib, or worse—he was dealing with a mislaid young _wizard_. “Well, you might not have realized you were seeing something you weren’t supposed to,” he said, half to himself. 

“I knew,” Credence said, voice barely audible. “No one else saw you. You—you walked across the street and nobody shouted at you or knew you were there. They can’t even see us right now. You—you’re a witch, aren’t you? Like Miss Tina.”

Well, fuck.

Fuck.

The Obliviation hadn’t taken. The boy remembered. And he knew Percival for what he was. All of Percival’s instincts, all of his years of training, were screaming at him to Obliviate the boy again and simply walk away. He could do that and no one would be the wiser. Hell, Percival could replace Credence’s memory so that he was simply an anonymous memory, a philanthropic gentleman who gave Credence a simple gift. But it might not take even if he tried, so what was the use?

And anyway, for whatever reason, Percival didn’t want to do that. 

“Yes,” he said. “I’m a witch. Well—a wizard. Women are witches and men are wizards.”

“Oh, God,” Credence whispered, and looked up at Percival with naked awe. Not fear. Why wasn’t he afraid? Why hadn’t he fled, or dropped to his knees and prayed, or called for help from his fellow parishioners? 

“And I think,” Percival went on, feeling reckless and dangerous because the things about Credence that didn’t add up were piling on faster than he could count, “that you might be a wizard too.”

The boy staggered and Percival caught him by the shoulder before he could trip and fall. “Me?” he asked, whiter than a sheet. Percival simply nodded. Credence looked at his hands like they belonged to a stranger. “Ma says that my mother was wicked and unnatural, and that I might be too…”

“If she was a witch,” Percival said gently, “then she was as perfectly natural as you, and probably quite a good woman.”

“Witches can’t be good,” Credence said. He hesitated, then very slowly and carefully pulled on the gloves. He kept looking at his hands. “But you’re good.”

He wasn’t, really. Percival Graves was a ruthless man and he knew it. There were many things he did in his life that were definitionally wicked. But Credence’s logic was simple and uncomplicated: Percival had done him a kindness, and therefore he was good. And while he untangled the mystery of this boy, while he worked out how to bring him into the magical community, while he discovered how many more children had ended up like Credence, Percival decided that he could be good to this boy. And he would be.

“I have to go,” Percival said, finally letting go of Credence’s shoulder. 

“But—but you’ll be back?” Credence asked, rocking forward as if he’d follow Percival’s hand. How starved for affection was he? 

Percival nodded. “I will be,” he said. “I promise.”

***

“You’re a damn fool,” Theseus says, when Percival finishes his explanation. “And you didn’t work out that he was the Obscurial?”

“No,” Percival says. He stares at the limp body on the bed, at Credence, who looks so terribly lonely and hurt. “I didn’t. I didn’t realize that he might be dangerous. Obscurials haven’t been studied much until recently. And even then I might not have worked out what Credence was.”

Theseus rubs his eyes with one hand. “Fair enough. What are you going to do now?”

Percival shakes his head. “No idea, I’m afraid.”

“You’d better have one. I bet the Threat Clock just jumped all the way to red. The first person they’ll call is you, hexing Senators or not.”

Ah, fuck. Theseus is right. He usually is. 

“I can’t turn him in.”

“I’m sure you can’t,” Theseus says. “And I don’t think you should, for what it’s worth. He’s made of pipe cleaners and putty. Injuries aside, he needs someone to take care of him.”

There’s no one else quite as irritably kind as Theseus. He’d shown up in New York just to make sure that an old flame wasn’t literally going out when no one would have blamed him a whit for staying away. He’d attacked machine guns head-on to save No-Maj soldiers he didn’t even know. Of course he wants to help Credence. He’ll grouse about it the whole way and look sour if Percival ever says anything to him, but Percival would bet money that Theseus will feel the same way about Credence, if given time.

Well. Hopefully not the exact same. They only need one horribly inappropriate torrid romance in the house at one time. 

“For now I think we need to just make sure he stays alive,” Percival says. 

“That’s a given. And what happens next?”

Percival drags a hand through his hair. “I keep him safe,” he says. “Do better this time.”

Theseus folds his arms forbiddingly. “Not good enough,” he says. “Even if you vouch for him, no one in MACUSA will let him walk. Hell, they might toss you in prison just to make sure you haven’t been replaced again.”

“I’d run with him,” Percival says. He meant for it to come out hard and determined but it’s a fucking lovesick confession instead. “He’d be safe outside of New York. America’s big enough that they wouldn’t find us.”

“And how long could you do that?” Theseus says harshly. “How long when you’ve got a scared kid with out-of-control magic to protect and all of MACUSA on your trail? Where the fuck would you go?”

Percival searches Theseus’ face for sympathy and finds none. “Chicago. Wyoming. The Rocky Mountains. Fuck, Theseus, I don’t know where I’d go, but _anywhere_ would be better than here.”

“You aren’t thinking straight,” Theseus says. He plants his hands on Percival’s shoulders and shakes him a little. “ _You_ can’t take care of him. You’re under too many eyes. You don’t have enough time to protect Credence and protect the rest of America!”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” Percival snaps. 

“Send him with me,” Theseus says. 

There are no words. 

Percival has absolutely forgotten how to speak. 

“…what?” he manages at last.

“Send him with me,” Theseus repeats. “I’ll take him back to England. The estate—you’ve been there, it’s _huge_ and far away from everywhere and no one ever visits. There’s space for him to sort himself out and learn some control. I can open doors for him, give him a new identity so that no one will suspect who he is. It’ll take perseverance and money but I’ve got plenty of both.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask me to,” Theseus returns. He glances over at the bed, at Credence’s still-unmoving body. “If you thought you would have to ask me to do something like that…”

Right. Percival takes a deep breath and straightens up. “It’s a damn sight better than any of my ideas,” he says. He holds up a hand when Theseus starts to speak. “But we aren’t making that decision for him. He deserves the chance to make the call himself.”

“And if he isn’t awake by the time I board that ship?”

That is not something Percival wants to think about, honestly. “Then he goes whether he wants to or not. You can keep him safe. You always were the better of us.”

The admission hurts him more than he expected. Percival can’t keep Credence safe, not really, and he never really could. If he’d been stronger, faster, _better_ …well. Theseus is a war hero for a reason.

“I don’t think I’m better. You could beat me in a duel any day,” Theseus says with a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I’m just not as…hm, I’m not as…attached.”

“That’s true,” Percival says. 

There’s a long moment of silence. They just stand there, in the silent room where there’s still the iron tang of blood in the air, with a half-dead boy in Percival’s bed, waiting for death to come find them again. It’s so awful that Percival could swear he hears the sound of shells exploding. 

“We should probably make something of the day,” Theseus says, rousing himself at last. “I’m thinking tea will help.”

“You don’t even _like_ tea.”

Theseus smiles brightly. “Well, tea is really the only response to a crisis.”

Percival, helpless, smiles back. “You are _the_ most British man I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” Theseus says. “Besides, I think your boy would like something hot when he wakes up. Might need it, coming in out of a January morning the way he did.”

That’s true. “Go make your tea, Theseus.”

“You coming?”

For a moment, Percival hesitates. He does want to get out of this room, clear his head, but… “I don’t want him waking up alone.”

He thinks for a moment that Theseus will haul him bodily out of the room, and then Theseus just squeezes Percival’s shoulder and exits the room with silent tread. Merlin, at least Theseus seems to understand. Percival doesn’t know what could be done if he didn’t. 

Quietly, Percival Summons a chair to the side of the bed and sits down, elbows on his knees. He doesn’t stare at Credence—madness lies that way, at the side of a hospital bed whose occupant is uncertain of awakening—but the wall is almost worse. There’s just the faintest rasp in Credence’s breathing, the sound cutting through Percival every time he hears it. 

Finally, he does look at Credence. The boy had always been thin. Now he looks like a skeleton wrapped in paper. His eyelids flutter, as if he’s dreaming, but the rest of his body never moves. He’s so still that he might not be alive at all. 

Theseus comes in as quietly as he left. He hands a cup of _impossibly_ strong black coffee to Percival, keeps one for himself, and sends a cup of tea floating to the bedside table. It’s steaming and Theseus points his wand at it and murmurs a charm to keep it warm. And then he pulls up a chair of his own and sits down beside Percival, bracing them together from knee to shoulder, a silent and solid support Percival doesn’t deserve. 

After a while Percival quietly rests his head against Theseus shoulder. What’s the point in fighting? The world’s coming apart around him again and he doesn’t know how to stop it. Here Theseus is anyway, next to him though no one would blame him for staying far away after Percival broke his heart the way he did. For a second, Theseus stiffens, and then he relaxes. He sets his coffee aside and wraps one strong arm around Percival’s shoulders, never saying a word.

Credence doesn’t wake up suddenly. It happens in fits and starts, the twitch of a finger here, the quickness of breathing there. The shadows move in uncomfortable ways and Percival wonders if it will be Credence himself waking up or something else entirely. 

Finally, _finally_ , the boy opens his eyes. He stares at the ceiling for a moment and Percival wonders if his heart is going to stop. And then Credence turns his head and looks and—

Percival is nearly knocked out of his chair by the force with which Credence hits him. He’s still tangled up in the blankets and can’t get very far but his arms are around Percival and his face is buried in Percival’s shirt and he really is _alive_. A wave of relief crashes through Percival. He holds onto Credence like they’re both going to break apart. Credence is saying things about how he thought Percival was dead, how he thought _he_ was dead. Percival is saying—ridiculous things, reassurances that they’re fine and everything will be all right. 

Theseus just watches them, eyes narrow and thoughtful. When Credence’s sobs finally stop and Percival has run out of things to say, Theseus says, “I hate to rush you both, but now that the reunion’s over, where do we go from here?”

Credence flinches and clutches Percival even more tightly. “Who’s he?”

“Theseus Scamander,” Percival says steadily. “My best friend. I trust him with my life.”

“Even though that’s a poor decision, seeing as I’m also the one most likely to hex him.” Theseus pauses, studies Credence for a moment, and then says gently, “Only in fun, you understand—and I’d never hex you, Credence.”

“All right,” Credence whispers. He’s trembling. Hesitant, worrying that he might actually break the boy’s bones if he’s not careful, Percival rests a hand on Credence’s back. He can feel every knob in his spine, the sheer terrifying _fragility_ of him. 

Theseus folds his arms and leans back in the chair. “To business,” he says, and Percival meets his eyes and nods. They need to work quick. “We’ve got to get you out of New York.”

Credence shudders. “I want to go. Where…”

“London,” Percival says. “If you want. Theseus will take you.”

“You won’t go?” Credence asks, looking up at Percival. He’s visibly frightened—no surprise—and Percival can see him thinking fast. “Are you…is this about…”

“ _No_ ,” Percival says. “If I had a choice, I’d go with you. I…well. You know very well how I feel.” He doesn’t particularly want to have this conversation in front of Theseus, but they’ve done it now. With a small sigh of relief, Credence buries his face in the crook of Percival’s neck. Percival feels _himself_ relax, and he holds Credence a little more tightly.

“Percival,” Theseus says in a rather dangerous tone, “is there something _else_ you didn’t tell me?”

***

“Credence?” Percival said, alighting at the end of the alley. The boy was nowhere in sight and Percival was unaccountably worried. Sleet dripped down out of the sky, cold enough to be miserable but not cold enough to be snow. It wasn’t the kind of day for anyone to be out in the weather. He hadn’t seen anyone from Second Salem out on the streets—had Credence been able to get away? “Are you there?”

Out of the shadows of a recessed doorway in one wall, Credence appeared. “I’m here, sir,” he said softly. “I was just trying to stay dry.”

Percival joined Credence in the doorway. The door was long since bricked over, but the recess remained. They were quite close in the small space, but Percival would actually die before admitting aloud to anyone that he liked the proximity. “Good thought,” he said. “I see that your ma even thought it was too wet to be out.”

“She still let me go when I said I was going to do charity work over at the orphanage,” Credence said. A tiny, proud smile snuck onto his face. “She thinks I’ve become very virtuous lately.”

“You have,” Percival said. He wanted to keep that smile on Credence’s face, keep him happy, even if only for a moment. “I think she forgets that her own book reminds us that what matters is not the countenance, but the heart.”

Credence blinked a few times. “…first Samuel?” he murmured. “You read the Bible?”

“I can read, you know,” Percival said, “even if I look like a real fool more often than not.” That made Credence smile again, even if it was small.

“I only thought that witches couldn’t read the Bible,” Credence said. 

“You know better than that,” Percival chided. “It’s a powerful book, but there are many powerful books in this world. And people like us are still men, victim of the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.” He certainly felt like a fool, quoting Hamlet now, but Credence had a habit of turning him into the worst kind of poet. And because Percival wasn’t the best with words, he must rely on someone else’s.

“Yes, sir,” Credence said, looking down at his shoes. “I’m sorry for offending…”

Percival, feeling as daring as a young man, lifted Credence’s chin with the gentle touch of a finger, so that they were looking each other in the eyes. “Never apologize to me,” he said. He meant it. Credence apologized for his existence to the whole world, but Percival would not be a part of that. A boy like this—as beautiful as an orchid growing amid the grit and grime of these nightmarish city streets, so strong despite his weak magic, terribly fragile for all that he’s made of _iron_ —a boy like this should never have to apologize to a single person. 

“Yes, sir,” Credence repeated in a whisper. He watched Percival with those gorgeous, nearly-pitiful dark eyes, and Percival so badly wanted to take him away from this place, just as he always did. It had been barely three weeks since they were acquainted, and Percival already fell harder for this boy than he thought possible. 

The boy’s skin was cold, far too cold for a day like this. Percival could feel it, just with his fingertip, like touching ice. “You need to get warm,” Percival said. He’d thought to ask Credence if he’d seen anything odd, anything that might help explain the strange explosion that happened earlier this week—there were some advantages to having a street urchin on one’s side; that mad Spiritualist got something right—but he was going to let it go, for now. “Go home.”

“Sir—I’m sorry—I mean—” Credence tripped over his words, looking away from Percival again.

“She’s angry with you,” Percival guessed.

Credence nodded, shivering. He didn’t say anything else, but he folded his arms around himself as if he was in pain. It seemed natural for Percival to rest his hand on the boy’s neck, a gesture that no observer would ever construe as anything less than romantic. Percival told himself it meant nothing more than comfort. He brushed his thumb over Credence’s sharp jaw and Credence shivered again. 

“What can I do?” Percival asked.

“I don’t know,” Credence whispered. Percival just looked at him for a moment, and then very gently pulled him forward. Credence, to Percival’s surprise, went willingly. He folded into Percival’s arms, head on Percival’s shoulder. He really was barely more than skin and bones, Percival realized with some horror, and it made Percival equal parts furious and despairing.

“I’m sorry,” Credence said into Percival’s shirt. 

How could he get through to this boy? Maybe—maybe he couldn’t. Maybe Credence had suffered too much. Maybe Percival couldn’t save him.

No, hopelessness wouldn’t do either of them good. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Percival said. He kissed Credence’s temple, and though it was nothing more than a brief touch Credence flinched like he’d been shocked. And then—

Percival would never in a thousand years have thought that Credence knew how to kiss someone, but here he was, being shoved against the wall by this too-beautiful boy, this child who wasn’t a child. It was messy and almost painful and Percival should have stopped it. He didn’t. He didn’t want to. If this was what would help Credence—this was what he’d do. 

When Credence broke away and stepped back, visibly afraid, Percival followed. Credence looked like he expected a blow. That wasn’t where this was going. “Let me take you home,” Percival said. At Credence’s expression of flat panic, Percival amended: “My home, not yours.” Credence’s wide-eyed, hopeful nod was all the consent Percival needed.

They appeared in the living room, Credence clinging to Percival like a lifeline. Percival disengaged himself long enough to strip off his coat and jacket. Credence moved to follow suit, but then stopped.

“Go ahead,” Percival said, throwing the extra clothes onto the nearest chair. “No need to stand on ceremony.” 

Fingers flying, as if he’d stop if he didn’t move fast, Credence unbuttoned his jacket and very carefully set it aside. Now Percival could see why he’d been nervous. There were bloodstains on the shoulders and arms, some old and faded out to a faint brown and others much darker and fresher. None were red, thank Merlin—if there’d been new blood Percival might have actually killed that woman—but he’s seen Aurors come back from combat with less blood on their clothes. 

Credence swallowed hard, looking away. “I can’t get them out,” he said very quietly. 

Percival didn’t know what to say. He touched the tip of his wand to one of the largest stains and murmured, “Tergeo.” The stain vanished as if had never been there, and Percival moved on to the next, and the next, and the next. He held Credence’s shoulder with one hand, keeping the boy steady. At some point Credence started to cry, silent and suppressed, and Percival thought his heart was going to break. 

The shirt was clean, finally, and Percival set down his wand and pulled Credence close. He still didn’t have anything to say—how could there be anything to say, to something like this? Percival still had nightmares, sometimes, about the things he’d seen in his life. And in many ways he was insulated from the things he saw, because they hadn’t _happened_ to him. They’d happened to Credence. They were still happening to Credence. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Percival said finally. 

“Yes, sir,” Credence said. He looked at Percival and there was new fear there, but _want_ , too, and oh, no, no, that wasn’t what Percival meant. 

Percival ran his hand through Credence’s hair, pushing it off his forehead and back so he could see the boy’s whole face. “How long has it been since you slept through the night?” he asked. He willed Credence to understand that what he was asking was nothing untoward. 

“…a long time.” Credence looked a little relieved, that Percival wouldn’t ask him for anything but company. What had he expected? Anything Percival could come up with made him feel sick. 

Finally, Percival did what he’d wanted to do, that first time he saw Credence: wrapped him in a blanket, made sure a fire was going, and fed him. Credence didn’t know what to do with all of it, but he took it all anyway in a kind of desperate bewilderment that cut Percival to the quick. Percival stayed with him, though they didn’t talk much at all, doing what he could to make the boy comfortable. 

He expected Credence to send him away, through nervous flinches if not through speech, but instead Credence bit his lip and didn’t let go of Percival’s hand when they got to the bedroom. So Percival stayed. He kissed Credence once, trying to promise a lot of things that he really couldn’t say, and let the boy fall asleep safe in his arms. What else could he do? He couldn’t protect Credence as he wanted while the law would see him executed and Credence likely imprisoned, for their flagrant violations of the Statute of Secrecy. 

Tonight had to be enough. Percival would worry about tomorrow when it came. 

***

“He’s _nineteen_ ,” Theseus says, passing beyond exasperation and into actual anger. 

“I never said it was an intelligent decision,” Percival says. “Or a particularly ethical one.”

They’ve relocated to the kitchen for this particular argument, because Credence is still exhausted and needs to rest. Besides, it’s risky having a fight around an easily-spooked Obscurial. There are some things that are just common sense.

Theseus closes his eyes and presses his palms together in front of his mouth, as if he’s praying for the strength not to just murder Percival outright. “It’s one thing to be thirty and taking up with a twenty-five-year-old man,” he says, “and another to be taking up with a nineteen-year-old boy when you’re _forty_.”

“What’s done is done,” Percival says. He doesn’t regret what he did. What he’ll _do_ , given the chance. It may be only a year above legal age, but Credence is nineteen. So that’s never been of any trouble. And as for ethics…well, Percival Graves has never claimed to be a good man. 

“Empty night, Percival,” Theseus says. “Is this just about sex? Because there are ways—”

“It was never about sex,” Percival snaps. “That was accidental. Someone needed to take care of that boy and no one else in this whole damn city stepped up to do that job.”

“Take care of—you took _advantage_ of him!”

Percival could punch Theseus right now. “Do you think I don’t know that!?”

Scowling, Theseus says, “There is _not a chance_ I’m leaving him here with you.”

“I’d never hurt him, Theseus.”

“You wouldn’t mean to,” Theseus says with certainty. “You never do. But that kid doesn’t know the difference between kindness and coercion. And you’re damn good at hurting people.” And that makes Percival flinch because of everyone in this world Theseus has good reason to know exactly what Percival can do to hurt someone. 

Out on the steps there’s a creak. Percival looks. Credence stands on the bottom step, looking into the kitchen. He’s dressed in the poorly-fitted pajamas they left him in place of his ruined clothes, and it’s heartening to see a little color in the boy’s face. 

“He’s never hurt me, sir,” Credence says, looking at Theseus. He clutches the banister for dear life, swaying, but struggles on anyway. “I started it.”

“You—” Theseus starts.

Credence shakes his head violently. “Mr. Graves…he didn’t want to hurt me. He’s the only person who never did. Never. Don’t…don’t blame him for the things I did.” Any color Credence had has vanished in favor of that awful gray. His hands are white-knuckled around the banister. How much effort did that little speech take?

Percival doesn’t wait for Theseus’ permission. He crosses the hall to steady the boy. “I own some blame,” he says, helping Credence to sit down and kneeling in front of him. “I should have stopped you.”

“Yes, you should have,” Theseus mutters. He’s followed them and looms over Percival, as if to strike him down should he so much as touch Credence’s face. 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Credence says hotly. The shadows shiver and Credence’s hands clench into fists. “I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t be _here_ if you’d left me. I’d have killed myself, Mr. Graves. Because I blew up into that—that _thing_ or because I used a knife. You saved me. You—” He breaks off, crying at full force. Percival, helpless again, lets Credence collapse into him. 

He looks up at Theseus and is momentarily surprised. Theseus looks _stricken_. It’s puzzling, and then Percival remembers. A few years ago, Theseus had confessed that the reason he’d chased after Percival even though they were in the middle of a war was that Percival was the only reason he’d decided to live. He’d been near to giving up, watching machine guns chew men up and spit them out as bullet-riddle corpses day after day, listening to men screaming and dying as he could do nothing to save them, waiting for the news that his little brother was dead on the Eastern Front. And somehow, Percival had pulled him back from that edge, though he still isn’t clear on how. 

Now Theseus has saved him, and will have a hand in saving Credence. No, no, not a hand. The job falls to him entirely. Percival needs to stay clear. He can’t be a shadow in Credence’s life anymore. He has to let the boy go. And he will, after this. When Credence lets go of him. He just wants this last moment, this last second of feeling like he can protect Credence at all.

***

It’s Thursday morning on the docks. Percival has come with Theseus and Credence, though he’ll be late to work. He wants to delay as long as possible. 

Credence looks better already, having had nearly a full week of three square meals a day and more-than-adequate rest. He’s tall enough that Theseus’ clothes fit him, though he doesn’t fill them out as Theseus does, and with an actual haircut Credence is unrecognizable as the boy on the street. He still carries himself shyly, but no one gives him a second look. 

“I’ll be sure to write,” Theseus says. “Let you know how the kid is settling in.”

“I’m sure he’ll do fine, under your gentle guidance,” Percival says. Though it sounds sarcastic, he means what he says. Theseus is already attached to Credence, hovering as badly as Percival ever does. He will take care of Credence, of that Percival is sure.

Credence looks at Percival for a moment. “May I…may I write to you?” he asks quietly. 

Theseus makes an aggrieved noise, but Percival just smiles. “I’ll always write back,” he says. 

There’s a brief moment when Percival thinks Credence will just turn away, and then Percival has his arms full. Credence’s eternally cold nose is pressed against his neck, arms locked tight around Percival’s ribs, and it’s so right that it hurts to let go. But let go he does. They stare at each other for a moment, and Percival minutely shakes his head. This is not the time and not the place. It may never be that time and place again. An embrace is one thing, a kiss is something else altogether. 

“Credence, can you give us a moment?” Theseus asks. Credence nods and steps away to the edge of the dock. When he’s out of earshot, Theseus turns to Percival. “So. I feel like this is the time to confess that my motives coming here were about as pure as yours were toward Credence.”

Percival raises an eyebrow. “Are your motives ever pure?”

Theseus snorts with amusement. “Not really.” He sobers a little and says, “But this really is a confession, Percival.”

“…what is it?”

“Turns out I’m about as ethical as you,” Theseus says with a self-deprecating shrug. “I was rather hoping that you’d tumble into my waiting arms like a damsel to a knight.”

Oh. Oh, no. “You wanted me back.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Fuck, Theseus,” Percival says. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “If you’d told me that the second day you were here, I’d have done whatever you wanted.”

“…fuck.” 

Percival feels really, really old right now. “We’re both idiots.”

Theseus sighs and looks over at Credence, who’s looking up at the ship that will carry them to England. “Guess I missed my shot,” he says.

“Maybe not,” Percival says. Theseus looks at him and Percival wonders what he sees. What has he ever seen? “I mean, Theseus. It’s you. I…”

Above their heads, the ship’s horn sounds. There’s a sudden flurry, a bustle of people hurrying to board, and Credence turns back to them anxiously. Of course they’re out of time.

“Someday,” Theseus says, “we’ll finish this conversation.”

Percival offers his hand. “Take care of yourself,” he says. 

Time seems to stall. Theseus takes Percival’s hand, and then his eyes narrow, and he doesn’t shake but _pulls_ and Percival stumbles right up against him. It’s like an electric shock when Theseus kisses him, hard and desperate and demanding. It’s so familiar that it burns. Percival doesn’t wait, doesn’t let shock freeze him: he kisses back, hard as he can, pushing back against Theseus and taking everything he can. They might never see each other again, and even if they do, there are a thousand and one things that might go wrong between now and then. Percival doesn’t think about onlookers, about Credence watching them, about anything but Theseus’ hot mouth and the hand clutching his. 

Another insistent blast of the ship’s horn shoves them apart. Theseus lets go all at once, taking a step back, staring at Percival. He doesn’t say another word. A passing businessman shoves between them, and by the time he’s gone, Theseus has Credence by the elbow and is guiding him away. Their heads are bent slightly together, and Percival wishes he could hear what they’re saying as they hand over their tickets and hurry aboard.

Percival stands there on the docks, watching until they’re out of sight. He waits as the ship pulls itself free and slowly, so slowly, turns out into the harbor, already picking up steam as it heads away to England. It’s carrying two-thirds of Percival’s heart, so it had better make its destination. 

He can’t make himself look away. It would be like—letting go. Like saying goodbye for good. 

On the rear deck of the ship, as it shrinks away from sight, Percival sees two small figures looking back toward New York. Part of him insists that it’s his imagination, overtaxed and needy. That he’s making things up for comfort when he doesn’t deserve it.

That last third of his heart knows better.

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s the titular song: [Bring Back My Soldier Boy To Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=odn6qNxqZIQ), a song from World War I.
> 
> Children’s rights: appeared with the onset of the Industrial Revolution and the first formal charter of the rights of children appeared courtesy of Eglantyne Jebb in 1923. By 1927, people would likely have at least a peripheral awareness that there are Lines Which Should Not Be Crossed, especially upper-class types like Percival.
> 
> Pipe cleaners: they’ve been around forever in various shapes, because PIPES have been around forever, but the first chenille-style pipe cleaner that we today would recognize was invented by Charles Angel and John Stedman in the early 1900s. (Or, at least, PATENTED in the early 1900s.) 
> 
> “That mad Spiritualist”: that’s Arthur Conan Doyle. The street urchins Percival references are the Baker Street Irregulars in the Sherlock Holmes series, street children that Holmes uses as an information network in London. 
> 
> “Empty night”: MORE SHAMELESS BORROWING FROM THE DRESDEN FILES.
> 
> There is one more story in this series, to be published...when I get done with the seventy-four different things I need to do for the accidental epic 'verse. (By the way: taking shots at your own fic is kinda fun. Theseus would _smack_ Percival in the other universe for being a dumbass and running off in the suitcase.) Anyway. Final piece to come, stay tuned!


End file.
